Bad Form
by Mongoosey
Summary: There is a world that chains them together there is no other world to hold them apart. A dismantling view of the eldest Pevensie siblings after Narnia. PeterSusan, incest.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the Narnia chronicles, and therefore do not own _The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe_. The true author is C.S. Lewis, who I unfortunately don't know very much about. This story contains pretty graphic incestuous themes between the siblings called Peter and Susan, and the implications cannot be avoided in the action that is known as a "blink". There is no vague reference to heterosexual incest, only graphic reference. The poem, which I also did not write, can be found in _Peter and Wendy_, a book written by author J.M. Barrie. The title consists of Captain James Hook's last words.**

Took Me Two Days, And I Have The Worst Writer's Block.

Author's Note: We just recently bought the bootleg DVD from Korea, and my sister, who doesn't care for anything at all in particular (one of those bitchy girls), exclaimed, "I smell incest." When I asked her why and between what characters, she pointedly said, "The older one with the big lips and that guy you like." She proceeded to make a squeaking sound and a "What the fuck" noise when the girl grabbed his shoulder in a very suggestive way. I could do nothing but agree.

* * *

**Bad Form**

* * *

_I wish I had a pretty house,_

_The littlest ever seen,_

_With funny little red walls_

_And roof of mossy green._

Peter notices that no one else in the house seems bothered by the noises in the downstairs bedroom, and so subsequently disregards his midnight chest pains as simply a side effect of being a prudish boy-no, _man_-from London. Oxford, he thinks, blocking out the badly muffled moans and groans which travel up to his room by ungodly breezes, was not as bad as this.

He wonders if Lucy, the youngest, ever hears of these sinful acts of nighttime, and realizes, with great relief, that his sister has always been a fairly heavy sleeper. In fits of tossing and turning, Peter understands that Lucy has never brought up any evidence of the secret knowledge that befalls her two older brothers, both of whom are in fact, proven light sleepers.

The silent screams and the translucent sounds of his sister's lips waft up from his floor and into the curve of his ear. It embraces him, whispers the sounds into his ears, his mouth, and breaks up everything into syllables.

_Har_/_der_, _Ple/ase, **Pe**/**ter**_

He can visualize her, however impossible that may seem to some unimaginative people. He's only lived with her for a lifetime and nineteen years, enough for him to see her toes curl and her heels push until it leaves indents on the downstairs bed. He can see the bones signaling her hips and the extent to where they roll over and over again, until she realizes she's almost at what she wants.

But Peter continues to muffle the sweetened damnations and reaches for the rather large bottle on the left hand corner of his desk, located on the right hand edge of his bed. He fumbles with the cap, and proceeds to quiet himself and therefore the noises below him. The liquid tastes familiar, like garter belts and pennies, and he's reminded of Oxford and bars.

She wouldn't admire that, he thinks, but somewhat smugly. She isn't the only one who's always been this way.

It burns his throat, but gives him enough to croak, "Not anymore" and the last thing he feels is free-falling into the alcohol-drenched sweat of his false comfort.

In the faded light of "Nevermore", Peter's hands emerge from underneath the blankets, and stay there, as if proving something special to whoever it may concern, and furthermore, to himself.

_We've built the little walls and roof_

_And made a lovely door,_

_So tell us, mother Wendy,_

_What are you wanting more?_

One morning, while their mother and father rest from their evening out, the Pevensies decide to have a homemade breakfast. Lucy tries her hand at cracking the eggs, and Peter, being the oldest, slides up behind her and grips her hands every time he thinks she might be on the edge of burning herself. She giggles like a pretty naiad, and Peter cannot help but laugh also, and how silly they both look, a king and a queen both laughing and fussing with a somewhat complacent iron skillet.

"Hurry up," Susan snaps, and the moment is gone.

Lucy balks at her older sister's voice and, with eyes downcast, shrugs her brother off and waits for the eggs to fry. Peter obeys and steps back, regarding his small sister. He ignores his other sister's moodiness and watches intently as Lucy hobbles on tiptoe as she reaches for the salt in the cupboards. To him, she is fragile and precious and teetering on the brink of adulthood.

They've been through this before, and Peter knows how much it can hurt.

In the dusty early morning sunlight of London, England, Peter vows he will murder any man that dares to court her.

He's looking too long at his younger sister and he finally notices after feeling _her_ stiffen behind him.

He breathes deeply through his nose and smells her jealousy.

"She's too young," a trembling voice sneers, and Peter closes his eyes, wishing it wasn't Susan. "Unless you like them that way."

Peter is on her before anyone-Lucy, Edmund, Narnia-can reach him. Lucy screams and Edmund can feel the weight of his chair falling backwards with familiar momentum.

"Take it back, Susan," he snarls, his ears ringing with the song of delicate bones bruising from the harsh connection with a wall. "Take it back," he repeats, pushing against her harder, one hand's knuckles white from the tightening into her shoulder and another gripping-or trying to grip-the flat wall beyond her. He notices her breathing is laboured, and her chest softly crumples into his.

Peter cannot see beyond her angry, mocking eyes, and doubts that she would allow him to, even if he had been able to. The breakfast has been all but forgotten, until Susan whispers, "Never" and captures Peter's bottom lip with her naked mouth.

There are collective gasps erupting from everywhere, but they, Peter and Susan both, do not seem to hear anything anymore. He pulls his head back after what seems to be forever, and just looks at his sister. Her darkened gaze suggests so much. It's almost a kind of passionate despair, he notices. A forever kind of despair that-dare he think twice-suggests or at the very least-the very very least-implies love.

Or whatever that is left of it.

Peter didn't dwell on it for long, however. There are things to do, and there are things a man cannot readily forget, and those things include watching your sister writhe under another fumbling stranger and then hearing her whisper _your_ name. Peter hates the men almost as much as he hates her, and he knew that she hates him as much as she hates Narnia.

Narnia. No one questioned in Narnia, and this never mattered either way.

Peter's only half-surprised at how hard he is, with boundaries.

"Peter-"

He breaks and shoves his broken pieces into her, starting with his hips. Susan's legs lift off the floor and by no means of Narnian magic, but by Peter's strong hands and even stronger arms. She moans appreciatively, and wraps her legs, clad with knee high stockings (the ones Lucy bought for her birthday) and rolls her hips against his. He's got half her shirt off (rather, he rips it off with his teeth), when Susan lets down one leg to balance herself and sticks her hand in his trousers. Peter, at this point, turns his head to Edmund, who's frozen solid and staring intently.

"Out. Get her out," he demands, panting, and in between breaths, Lucy notices her oldest brother's lip and the fact that it's bleeding slightly with their blood.

It's her blood, really, but Lucy doesn't correct herself, because as far as she knows, they, as Pevensies, all have the same kind.

Her eyes widen as she realizes that she can now see her older sister's knickers, which, due to the length of the skirt, she really shouldn't. Lucy realizes with the expression of her widening eyes that the reason why she can see her sister's knickers in full view is because her oldest brother is pulling them off of her while he adjusts himself. She watches, in horror, as her sister's skin flushes while Edmund pulls her away.

"Don't!" she manages to yell, before Edmund's clammy hand tugs her from the stove. She means to Peter, but Susan answers.

"I can't help it," Lucy hears her whimpering. Both she and Edmund watch as their brother clumsily thrust into her, as if with some sort of madness, and as Susan arches as a result of it.

Lucy's last view of that morning is of Susan arching upwards, and her last smell is of eggs burning.

_Oh, really next I think I'll have_

_Gay windows all about,_

_With roses peeping in, you know,_

_And babies peeping out._

She hears the front door creak open before she's aware of the time, quietly alerting and reminding her that the senses are often stronger than the mind. She kicks the sheets off of her and "the new guy", whom she decides to name Jon because she can't really recall his name. He just grunts and turns over on his stomach, the way Susan expects them all to do.

Susan tiptoes to the door, the sheet wrapped around her bare skin. There's moonlight scattered throughout the room from the top windows, but she keeps her eyes to the floor. Eyes to the sky north of her means Peter, and she doesn't really want to remember anything right now.

The door is opened a crack, so she peers out, not really expecting another nighttime visitor since it's too late for those, or a burglar since, well, they have Peter. And Peter, she thought angrily, always protects them.

Peter's voice echoes in her head, and now she feels she knows what phantom sounds means to Peter. She's seen the bottles under his bed, but knew, at the time, the definition of a "nightcap". She knows the definition of many things, she thinks. Even as her brother is crying-something he rarely does-she can't bring herself to say that yes, she does love him, and yes, she does remember Narnia.

Instead, she's not that brave as Peter, and not so gentle anymore. Instead, Susan tells him that she hates him, which is true in its own partial way, and that no, she doesn't remember Narnia, nor does she wish to. She relieves herself by saying those things, but in a couple of years, perhaps only one, she will regret every single unanswered question.

For now, though, they dance in the skin that becomes them and do the duties of man and woman, and of brother and sister.

The door creaks closed, not unlike the wardrobe years before. What Susan spies from her view of the door is nothing short of amazing and unusual. A girl is present, in their parlor, wearing what looks to be shabby walking boots and a panicked expression.

The girl quietly shakes off her wet umbrella, indicating to Susan the current state of the weather outside.

She's pretty, she notices firsthand. Her clothes seem a tad too modest, and those boots look garish and manly against her slim legs, but Susan cannot readily deny what is true. Her hair, undone from the hood of her raincoat, contrasts with the blackness in shades of gold, and the shift of her body hints at a form much unlike the sack that covers it.

It's when Susan notices that her heart is beating, or that it hurts, but she doesn't know quite from what. Her lack of knowledge does not prevent Susan from slipping and exposing herself to the stranger, and after she recovers from her ordeal of what she believes to be is a faint heart attack, Susan straightens herself up and addresses the girl.

"Are you lost?" Susan inquires, wondering what on earth the girl might be doing in her home. The girl's eyes widen as she spies the bed sheet around Susan's waist, but composes herself immediately. Or at least tries to.

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry. I must've came to the wrong house," she runs a hand through her hair and chews on a fingertip nervously. "I'm not from here, you know," she offers as a haphazard explanation. "And it was windy, and rainy, and I'm really good at seeing in the dark-"

"What house were you looking for?" Susan walks closer to the shaking girl. She can see her features clearer, and subconsciously celebrates the fact that the strange girl may not be as pretty as she first made herself to be. Susan notices the girl has many freckles, but stops her evaluation in lieu for an explanation. "What house were you looking for," she repeats.

"The Pevensies," the blonde admits, "And I'm sorry I've got it wrong."

She turns to leave, but before Susan can stop herself, she's saying, "This is the Pevensies" and the girl starts smiling a most unsettling smile, in which there are too many perfect teeth, and too little lipstick. Susan's stomach drops. She's beautiful.

Susan frowns. "Are you looking for anyone in particular?" She finds herself chewing the inside of her lip in anticipation of what she should say and what she might say.

"Is…Peter Pevensie available?" She says that rather hesitantly, a bit too kindly for Susan, who's used to aggression and even violence from other girls. She then remembers that she is wearing a bed sheet, and that, under no circumstances, bodes well with the general public.

"He's-," she begins uncertainly, and finds herself interrupted. It's just as well, she supposes. She wouldn't have been able to finish that sentence anyway.

"Genevieve?"

The blonde turns her head and widely smiles, like a kid on Christmas morning. "Peter?" she calls hopefully.

Sure enough, it is her brother walking down the stairs, shirtless like it never rained in London, and beautiful, Susan thought, like he always is.

The two embrace and Peter lifts her up and twirls her around, so much that she squeals in delight. He gently places her down and presses a finger to her lips, breathless and saying, "Everyone's sleeping."

"I've missed you," she whispers to his finger, and the hot air vibrates his body and Susan doesn't want to watch anymore, but she can't look away. It's akin to stabbing yourself by accident on the finger, and then having no choice but to watch the consequences of your stupidity and your skin bleed because _you_ tore it to pieces.

Susan can feel her brother watching her, and therefore turns her beautiful, gentle head away.

"Susan-", he begins, finally at a lost for words. He reaches towards her with his free hand, but she flinches and backs away.

She smells garter belts and pennies, and so, Susan Pevensie, on her peach-coloured wings and white stag, flies away into the confines of her own nighttime with nary a word.

Later, when "Jon" awakes and bothers her about the noises and the creaking above, she just laughs.

He asks her why the hell she's crying, did he do something wrong, and Susan laughs again.

Susan notices that **no one else** in the house seems bothered by the noises in the upstairs bedroom, and so subsequently disregards her midnight chest pains as simply a side effect of being a prudish girl

-no, _queen_-

from

Narnia.

_We've made the roses peeping out,_

_The babes are at the door,_

_We cannot make ourselves, you know,  
_

'_Cos we've been made before._


End file.
